


seventy-five

by aluinihi



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003)
Genre: And that's about it really, Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 14:23:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19007584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aluinihi/pseuds/aluinihi
Summary: And sometimes Roy’s nights were so dark not even the sunlight could breach it.





	seventy-five

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because my brain is one little bastard and sometimes decides I should write shit that doesn't really make sense.

He woke up to the sound of the shower running. It had always been rather comforting to wake up to the sound water; be it rain, or shower, or the sea he had never set foot in. Water had depth just like the soul, it could be crystal clear or opaque just like the soul — it could get dark.

And sometimes Roy’s nights were so dark not even the sunlight could breach it. Those were the days when he could not come up with an excuse to wake up that went beyond _I need to_ — which is a shitty excuse, as there are lots of things one needs but doesn’t necessarily do. His shoulder twitched, once and twice and more, and there was this burning spot of pain somewhere around his temple, but his legs were stiff — and changing that just to get meds felt unnecessary. He opened his eyes and the room was comfortably dark.

Dark, dark, dark.

The bedroom was quiet and Roy figured he should wait for Ed — for _Ed_ , nothing else, as he would inevitably come back to grab whatever piece of clothing he had forgotten on his way to the bathroom. Maybe he would say Roy’s name a few times and drag him out of bed. That was usually enough.

“Roy?”

But perhaps today it wouldn’t be.

The space between them — or better yet the space between their flesh and blood and bones — was reduced by Ed’s unhurried steps. Roy was glad, he didn’t think Ed should ever run, not after all those years he had spent running. He lost count of the sound of feet hitting the floor after three, then his upper-arms twitched complaining of the other weight on the mattress.

“Are you alright?”

_twitch, twitch, twitch_

“Not really.”

His voice sounded broken and Roy wished he could rot in the special place in Hell dedicated to those who sounded broken while having all their limbs intact. Edward touched his cheek as if it could shatter.

“Do you have a migraine?”

“Also.”

The boy was silent — the _boy_ , yes, it was in days such as this that he looked like a fifteen-year-old whose automail was stolen — and the crease between his brows gave Roy a vague sense of self-awareness and desire to reassure. However, his own hands were too far away for him to reach and demand movement, and he lacked words that were not lies. _I’m sorry,_ he could say, but how could he _say_ if he would probably not be able to change his actions? It would probably taste like muddy water.

He had drunk it before. A few times a few years ago.

“I’m calling Hawkeye and telling her you’re not going.”

“No, I’ve got things to do.”

“Roy,” Ed said it in that tone he only uses when he can feel danger, “you’re shaking.”

That sent wave of electricity up and down his spine, and his mind cried for his body to run. But it didn’t — and the frustration of not being heard, of being completely and utterly ignored by his own self, acquiesced his instincts and the world was comfortable once again. He listened to Ed’s breathing and watched as his thorax moved steadily, and longed to touch.

“How can you tell? It’s dark here.”

“I’m used to the dark too,” the blond shrugged, “do you want me to stay with you today?”

Edward was warm, he always was. Wasn’t that a requirement to be alive? Even if the air you breathe is freezing, your flesh is warm because of the blood that runs through it. Roy wasn’t cold — _he had been_ , before, before Edward and _them_ , but now he wasn’t — although the promise of heat and company made him shiver.

“You have work.”

“I can take a day off.”

“That’s not right.”

“Why? You did it for me two months ago.”

Roy could remember _two months ago_ with a clarity that he didn’t need right now. “I’m not sick.”

He heard a sigh, then fingers threaded through the bangs sticking to his forehead — his hair was _wet_ which is absurd, he hadn’t put his head underwater. Now he wanted to, and at the same time he didn’t — water is not breathable and he would choke, choke, choke, and die, and even if he deserved it Roy didn’t want to choke and die.

“What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” then he rephrased it: “I’m thinking so many things that I don’t think I can tell you all of them.”

“It’s okay, you don’t need to.”

“Are you staying?”

“Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> *shrug*


End file.
